


He Calls You Theseus (Now Call Him Odysseus and Welcome Him Home)

by starofroselight (afwrit)



Series: our (chain of servers) held by a dream - [dsmp AU] [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood and Injury, Brothers, Death, Flashbacks, Found Family, Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Introspection, Memories, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, sleepy bois inc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28786947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afwrit/pseuds/starofroselight
Summary: Odysseus, the Greek hero of heroes, known not by his strength but by his intellect and cunning. Odysseus, renowned by everyone but those he loved, who had forgotten his face and voice.But Technoblade is not Odysseus.Odysseus never forgot.When Tommy enters Technoblade’s life, he brings with him memories of a family that seem disconnected from reality. Now each of them must come to their own decision: is it better to remember or to forget?~-~A Dream SMP AU exploration of Sleepy Bois Inc., their past, present, and future. Told out of chronological order. Updates Tuesdays.Sidequel toI Offer You Elysium
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: our (chain of servers) held by a dream - [dsmp AU] [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2165742
Comments: 28
Kudos: 139





	1. Technoblade Tells a Story

**Author's Note:**

> My full respect to the content creators for making such a vivid world I could write for. Despite the tags, this is not intended to be Real Person Fiction (this is a constraint of the AO3 tagging system) rather the characters these wonderful people are playing on the Dream SMP. I do not mind if my fics are shared cross-platform, as long as I am credited appropriately. If any of the real-life people mentioned in my stories are uncomfortable, I will take it down immediately without hesitation. Likewise, if any of them see it, I hope they enjoy.
> 
> I've been working on this for two weeks now. This is my pet project. Have fun, readers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technoblade's language is the art of combat and weaponry. Tommy doesn't understand, so Technoblade speaks in a way they'll both understand. Or, Technoblade’s been having strange visions while taking care of Tommy.

A flurry of snow buffeted the snow banks around Technoblade's retirement home. 

Technoblade had decided teaching Tommy the art of arrow fletching was important. He had come to immediately regret that decision. Tommy’s loud mouth and shaky hands were something manageable in the best of times, but when the time came for work to be done they became hindrances. Liabilities.

Technoblade didn’t take in liabilities. 

“How’s this, big man?” The tooth-gaped teen asked smugly, holding up a shoddily constructed arrow as if it were made of gold.

Technoblade briefly considered how much easier this would have had he cleaved Tommy’s head clean off in the hole under his house.

_ > You can’t! _

_ > The most efficient way to grind out arrows is village trading. Make one of your downstairs hostages a fletcher, trade sticks, build rapport, then trade in for arrows. _

_ > Tommy pog _

_ > would’ve been funnier if you did _

“Chat, do you see what I’m dealing with?” He mumbled to himself. 

“Oi Chat! Hey Chat, do you think Technoblade is a big bitch?”

“Tommy, you’re giving me a headache.” That wasn’t all that was giving him a headache: voices, the thousands of voices which were riled up by his every interaction with another living soul. Each voice was vying for a spot to influence his words, to have any effect on the outside world like they once were able to.

And the voices really liked Tommy.

“All I want’s an answer.”

He wouldn’t get one.

"How am I better at this with hooves?! Here, let me show you one more time.” Techno squatted beside where Tommy was sitting on the stone brick floor. “Two ties on each side over the flint. Three sharp cuts into the wood. Feather goes in between. Look, perfectly functional arrows! What part of this aren’t you getting? It’s not that difficult!”

Tommy picked up the tools from the fletching table. He took one look at the sticks, then picked up a fistful of feathers.

“Right—”

“Okay, that’s enough, I’m not going to let you keep massacring my feathers like this. What even is this?" He picked up a feather from the floor. It hung limp between the heel of his hoof, frayed and torn. "These chickens died for nothing!"

“What am I supposed to do while you do all the work if I can’t help?” Tommy was pouting, his face so full of vibracity and energy it looked as if he was choking.

That was it. Techno's face twitched. 

“Maybe if you sit down and stay quiet for a minute, I can come up with an idea!”

Surprisingly, Tommy did. His face flushed red with embarrassment. 

And Technoblade realized he had screamed at a scared, struggling sixteen year old child covered in scars. 

_ > do you feel powerful now _

_ > OOOOOOO _

_ > You should kill him _

_ > Betray Tommy! _

_ > betray tommy _

He dragged a hoof over his face. The gesture was easier with hands.

"Look. . . Tommy. You're clearly not good at fletching arrows. Why don't you go lay down in your racoon hole?"

Technoblade’s plan had been, surprisingly, one of altruism. He wanted to teach Tommy how to make arrows so he could value the ammunition. He had a tendency to complain about. . . well, everything, but specifically running out of supplies. Techno hoped this would teach him how valuable they were. Not in resources, but as assets. In the heat of battle, every shot mattered.

After Tommy had made a quiverful of arrows, Technoblade planned on taking him out to his practice range. Inexperienced hands nocking an arrow were shaking and quick to flinch. Archery hurt. It was a difficult skill to master; the art of shooting an arrow required the fletching to run through the archer’s fingers. If their hands were smooth and uncalloused, the projectile would cut through their fingers like a blade in water. His hands (and hooves) were roughed up to the consistency of leather from arduous repetition. Tommy hadn’t had that experience.

Technoblade had made leather gloves for that exact reason.

And now that plan was ruined.

While his retirement home was the definition of picturesque, Tommy had come to ruin that as well. The foundation had made Techno's house uneven. The ground was unstable and it had started to sag north. 

Tommy had literally dug up and unsettled his life. 

Somewhere in there was a metaphor and a moment for some much-needed introspection. Technoblade ignored it. 

Snow had sloped onto the roof heavy, the sound of monsters outside crunching feet of the stuff. The cold had choked out the will of any invaders at the cost of isolating them together. The house’s floor was insulated with stone, then covered with wood. The chimney doubled as a source of light, warmth, and a way to heat the floor. Technoblade had learned how to make heated floors from Chat. The quality of life improvement was immense.

Tommy hadn’t understood how, but he did enjoy it. Too often he had slept in his boots, curled up into a jacket or blanket or whatever he could find. But this? This was a luxury that could lull him into a rest like no other.

And Tommy needed a good sleep after Logsteadshire.

Still, his spirit reignited despite his body's protests. He stretched his arms upward in attempts to hide his yawn. 

He stomped his foot. 

"I'm not tired! We need supplies, we need—We need to get back the discs."

That was going to be a hard habit to kick. The kid needed a break; his eyes were ringed in black. He sat hunched over with awful posture, looking pitiful. Technoblade held back the urge to call him a racoon again.

Despite the warmth, Tommy was shivering.

Exhaustion. Techno knew it all too well.

The Piglin man took off his cape, folding it over his arm. It helped increase his bulk, his size when intimidation was necessary. When he was home its purpose became a blatant unnecessity. Still, he often found himself falling asleep in it, curled up in a tiny pile against the wall where no one could hurt him. 

It was important.

And he tossed it to Tommy. 

"We'll get back the discs after you go to sleep. If you fall asleep in the snow you'll freeze to death and die."

Then he stoked the fire with an iron pole, minding Edward's head. He couldn't be bothered to kill the creature just yet. The flames roared up, consuming the cold air in the room and up the chimney. 

Tommy held the crimson cloak in his arms. He stared for a second, then twisted to wrap it around himself. It was enormous, swamping his thin figure in fabric and comfort unknown for weeks in exile. He pushed himself further into the corner with the fletching table, close to his hiding box.

"The 'and die' is kind of redundant, 'innit?" Tommy muttered, head poking up from the fluff of the cloak’s collar.

Technoblade sighed. 

They were going to keep talking in circles. He would make a general statement, Tommy would overload him with non sequiturs and nonsense sentences until Technoblade tuned him out with Chat. However, he couldn’t ignore Tommy here. If he did, the boy would never go to sleep, and the cold of the night didn’t need a cold shoulder on top of it. A cranky Tommy and an annoyed Technoblade was a recipe for disaster, overthrowing governments or otherwise.

There was only one way he knew how to talk in times like this:

“Let me tell you a story.”

It was an offer more intimate than Tommy knew. 

Naturally, he rejected it.

“What if I don’t want to hear a story?” Said teenager shifted in his cozy corner. 

“Too bad.” He pushed the crown up from where it was slipping off his head. If he was going to coax the world's most energetic child to sleep, he needed to let down his guard. 

“Why do you even wear that thing?”

“What, the crown? It’s not like I use it in combat or anything, it's just for fun. Fun is banned? You're banning fun now?" He laughed. "Good luck getting anyone on your side."

“I don’t have a side. Or rather, my side is your side? Now you’ve gone and got my head all confused.” Tommy’s voice had grown softer. 

Techno couldn’t have that.

“There’s no ‘our side’. We are not a team.”

Tommy huffed. “Until we get the discs back.”

“Will you let go of the discs for a minute? They’re not going anywhere.”

“Could go into a fire.”

Techno huffed heavier. Puffs of true flame curled out from his snout. Not the metaphorical risk clouding Tommy’s mind. He was already headed towards the pitfall he wanted to avoid. It was time to change the subject.

“Considering your limited knowledge of Greek classics, you wouldn’t happen to know Homer?”

“Who what now?” 

A solid ‘no’ would have sufficed, Techno thought.

“You probably haven’t heard of Odysseus, then.”

“With a name like that, I reckon I should of. Wait, this is one of your myths again, isn’t it?” Tommy kicked himself up, back against the wall to look at Technoblade as they spoke.

“I like a certain section of stories. Is that so wrong?”

“Is this story about you?”

The Blade tutted. “No, no, no. I don’t have any family. Orphans killed my parents. Family is useless, it slows you down unless you’re exacting revenge. In that case, family is excellent. Nothing better than dead family.”

"That doesn't make any sen—"

"Keep interrupting and I'll make you sleep in Carl's stable."

Tommy pouted. His hair stuck up in every which way, active as he was.

“Odysseus was a king of his own island. He lived in peace with his family on Ithaca, and he was known as a wise man.” It had been a while since Technoblade had told a story like this. His rhythm was lacking. “He was the favorite of Athena, the goddess of battle and wisdom.”

“Gods aren’t real.”

“You’re looking at one.”

Silence. “Yeah, right.” 

"Moving on.” He wasn’t willing to indulge Tommy in that story when he was preoccupied with telling another. “While Odysseus was a king, he wasn’t the chief king. At that point Greece was broken up into various city states, other little countries that refused to be conquered. While it was all Greece, there was a difference between a Spartan and an Athenian. Too many fights for power and the geopolitical landscape had torn them apart. Odysseus had his friends, though it would be more accurate to call them his allies, his country with whom he had sworn an oath to fight alongside. Each of those kings would be headed out their own separate way.” That felt right to Technoblade. “They were brothers in arms, finally called to war for the sake of their nation. But Odysseus ended up alone.”

“Why?”

“The people around him broke the rules. They went up against the sun god, and so they were punished.”

“What’d they do?”

“Oh, uh. Ate his cows.”

Tommy gasped.

“No!”

“Okay, so you get it. The Pet Skirmishes but on a much, much bigger scale.”

“Where’s Sapnap?”

“Tommy, it’s a myth, it’s not about your friends. They’re gods.” 

“Dunno why you’d tell a story about a bunch of boring, stuffy gods. Hey, why’re you such a bad storyteller?”

That was it. "I'm trying to monologue here! Chat, Chat see how impossible this is?"

“Tell chat that you’re a pussy! And I’m the coolest! TommyInnit is the coolest, got it?” Tommy’s eyes, which had held the murmurs of sleep, were now alive and vicious.

Undoing all of Technoblade’s work. And proving he didn’t understand Chat.

“Bruh.”

“I am!”

“For the third time now, if you will let me talk, I’m trying to tell the story.” 

“Right, right, sorry.”

“Odysseus was the only one who knew the warning signs. He had encountered the gods before, and he would rather starve to death than offend them. Because sometimes, Tommy, not offending people is a good thing, and making needless enemies makes the situation ten times worse.”

Tommy bit his lip. 

Techno continued.

“But no one ever listens to Odysseus. That’s one of the ironies of the story, Tommy. Often being right lets the hero escape with his life. Doesn’t mean he can save anyone else. Most of the time he doesn’t even save himself.”

“What?”

“I mean, I tried telling you. Heroes are doomed the moment they call themselves heroes. Odysseus never did, he was smart. It was the people that came later and told the story that did that. A hero is born through the crossing of the stars, something divine. Special. For all of his worth, the burden of expectation is put on his shoulders and then he battles with his pride. The Greeks had a word: hubris. It’s the hubris that strikes the killing blow. It’s never the beast or the gods themselves, it’s someone the hero has wronged. Odysseus wronged a monster, a cyclops, but even that was too far.”

Tommy was quiet. All of his focus was pooled into Technoblade.

“Odysseus played the part of warrior. Now it was time for him to be a survivor. See, it didn’t matter what the gods put him through, the trials or the tribulations or the meaningless delays. He had a mental image of what his home was. Ithaca. It had stopped being a real place. Instead it was an idea. A concept.”

“Oh.”

“And even when he was gone, trapped by witches and beasts, he kept that vision of home in his head. Because he was going to get there no matter what. It was all he had left of the world he knew. Even when he was offered another life, another world in what might have been a better place, he turned it down. Because it wasn’t what he wanted. He learned what being a hero meant, and now what he wanted was the opposite: to go home. To be normal. But the thing is, life doesn’t wait around for us to come back.”

Tommy glanced down to his neck. The lodestone compass shimmered in the dim light. His Tubbo.

“The world doesn’t care what your aspirations are, your nation, or your ideas. It doesn’t even care about your friends. The world doesn’t care if what you want does not want you. It doesn’t care, period. It’s cold. Survival is survival.”

* * *

"I want to be a hero when I grow up!"

"Oh, you do?" The man chuckled, furloughing his spade to sit down on the steps beside him. 

"What's the point of having a name like Technoblade if you're not a hero?" He shut the book in his lap, face beaming.

The young man's mouth opened before a scream rang out from inside the house, followed by shouting and yelling. 

The blond haired man sighed. He smiled back, then rolled his eyes. The man reached out and tousled his hair.

Techno laughed as the man’s voice echoed:

"How are ÿ̸̻͓́̑͐͗̽͝͠ö̶̝͖̱̫̈́̑͌͒̋ǜ̴͍͖̝̑̋ ̴̢̛̛̮̼̲͖̠̻̼̝̥̗̻̩̲̼̂̽͌̾̇͂̈́̾͐̅͘̚t̷̤͔̥̤̫̫̟̀̐̈́̿͐ḧ̴̡̘̦͔̠͎̰̬̼̜̺̮͎͚͛̈́ͅȩ̵̦̦̠̬̼͔̰̩̯̻̍̈́͐̌̓͆̉̑͗ ̸̪̤̣̏͒̚͜ͅm̸̗͇̘̮̥̮̪̤̯̤̞͉͗̾́͜ą̸̡̖̭̣̭͉͎̥̫̝̑̿̅̄̓͐̽̊̂͂̆͠͝ͅţ̶̮͚̰̂̈́̐͆͑̍͆͗͝͠ü̶̢̻͔̼͓̹͖̺̯͙̅̂̔̊̐̅ͅr̴͔̐̾͛ẽ̴̱̰̣̀̓̉̆̓̈̄ ̸̛̱͇̺̂̿͑̏̍̋͊͊͗̋̇̆͝o̴̬̙͚͇̳͎͆̇̌̐̿͂̓̄͛͝ͅn̵̨̈́̈́̂̋̐ͅe̷̛̟̱͖͙͙̩͆̊̆̓̂͒̈̍?̸͖̟̺͇̬̗̰̭̺͇͆͐̀͊̄̍̀̅͜

* * *

_ > home. _

_ > Tommy's still looking at you, you haven't spoken in a minute _

_ > do you feel sick?? whats going on i just got here _

“Blade?” And there was Tommy, with a drop of concern in his voice.

Technoblade shook his head. Late joiners. The memory crumbled to dust. 

He continued. “The Isle of Ogygia. That was where Odysseus’s survival took him. He stayed there, in the lull of the witch Circe, who wanted him for herself—”

“That’s sexist.”

“W-What?”

“The witch!”

“You think the witch is sexist?”

“No no no, the hero! He gets called upon—lured—by this woman just because he’s what, the hero?”

He could not believe this. “Tommy. I didn’t write it.” 

“I’m just saying!”

“ _The Isle of Ogygia_. Or Atlantis, some people think it could be Atlantis, it honestly depends on what version you’re reading but that’s not important. Odysseus spent countless years there, safe but soulless. His heart was gone from his body, kept at bay with thoughts of home. Of family, of kinship. He was out of his body and mind for seven years. He was at the gods’ mercy, but fortune smiled upon him and he escaped.”

Techno took a moment to return his attention to his listener.

Tommy was transfixed, eyes wide.

For some reason, that made him smile.

“He made his way to one of his allied kingdoms. The gods, though, had shifted his appearance. This was to know how he still stood in their eyes. When so much time passes, relationships and bonds fade. Only his dog recognized him. The home he’d wanted for so long was plundered, practically destroyed. His wife—”

“He had a wife? That’s unrealistic.”

Technoblade repeated, annoyed: “His wife and his son didn’t recognize him. Only the dog.”

Tommy continued to ignore his point.

“Well dogs are good like that. I reckon dogs are better than most people."

Moving for the first time since the beginning of the story, he took a step towards the corner.

“Tommy, I’m trying to tell you that even though he won—He got everything he wanted, he got to go home—He didn’t win. His home was different. And he wasn’t the same man.”

“That’s—That’s sad.” 

Tommy stood up and Technoblade crossed his arms.

“It’s not a happy story.” 

"Then why are you telling it?"

“Forget about it.” If Tommy didn't understand, he wasn't going to waste any more time explaining. 

Tommy moved, shifting the cloak on his shoulders crooked. He opened the spruce doors, a strange expression on his face. Like a mixture of horror, fear, and anger. Technoblade recognized the anger first. Tommy looked back, stepped into the snow, then shut the door.

Techno thought, what? He’s going to throw a tantrum because a story doesn’t go how he wanted—

* * *

A white substance flitted down through the air like snow. Small, unburnt hands grasped upwards to try and catch it. They had only seen snow, never this new, fluffy, off-white plume.

The boy coughed up ash. 

“Hello? D̸̫̦̳̰͐̉ã̸̲̦̞̺͆d̶̗̒̐̕̕?”

* * *

Technoblade grabbed the edge of the box, stumbling. 

The memory—No, vision—was incompatible with reality. How would he have gotten to the Nether as a child? And Techno never had a father, never depended on anyone, never needed—

Before he could even begin to understand the implications, he was thrown back in.

* * *

He was lost. 

He was alone. 

And he couldn’t have known that enough inhaled ash will scar your lungs, burn your skin, and bury you beneath a mountain of suffocating fire the moment you stop moving. He couldn’t have known that the Nether contains biomes of this stuff.

Ash has suffocated him. It burns, searing his skin and cooking him alive. It’s like the fall of Pompeii. He read a book on Pompeii once. Perhaps in some distant time an archaeologist will discover the hollow shell of his remains and theorize what happened here, or a traveler, a survivalist happening along the same paths years later when he’s just a mound.

He read another book, once. About a volcano. It’s similar to that pyroclastic flow, a mix of awful molten core and heat. There’s no way to swim in lava, not truly. It doesn’t stop a thirteen year old boy from scraping for the surface in a pit.

He was going to die here.

It’s his coat that saves him. Handcrafted and made with love. The bottom half tears, and he loses a precious gift but gets to keep his life. 

Everything is burning. Is he screaming? His clothes are torn and he’s burning, he’s burning—

As quickly as it had come, it was gone.

* * *

Technoblade was instantly brought to the sensation of cracklings coals. He jumped at the sound, then looked down at his hands.

Hooves, right. Hooves.

This was too much to process.

Techno looked up.

He watched Tommy waddle to the front of the house in front of Carl’s stable, trudging through the snow the most inefficient way Technoblade could imagine. He was wiping his face.

For some reason, he thought it was something his good friend Philza would have a laugh at.

_ > PHILZA!!! _

_ > Philza Minecraft? _

_ > Philza would love it here _

_ > The child is annoying, I hope he freezes to death _

_ > I miss Philza _

_ > Countdown to Philza visiting! _

“Chat, you’re screaming into my ear right now.” He needed clarity, not a thousand voices in unison chanting for a friend.

Even from here, he could see that tears were pooling in Tommy’s eyes.

Technoblade didn’t bother with a coat. He ignored the sounds of the fire and how the heat made him feel uneasy, instead opting to climb down the ladder and go out the front door. Tommy was muttering to himself, a hand petting Carl.

“‘s not a happy story—What’s the point of telling a story if it’s not happy? I reckon he’s just one big downer. Downing all the time.”

It was then Techno decided to speak. 

“I’d say talking to yourself is a bad habit but since I can’t really do that without coming off like a hypocrite, I’ll tell you that being quieter usually means people can’t overhear sensitive, secret information.”

Tommy didn’t jump, but his shoulders hitched.

“I don’t care about secrets.” Tommy crossed his arms.

“Everything’s a secret when you can’t understand basic information people are telling you.”

“You don’t tell me anything!”

“I’m trying to tell you why people tell sad stories.”

“If I were his family, I would have recognized him.”

“No you wouldn’t have! That is literally the point of the story. You’re like five now, you think you’d recognize someone you saw as a baby?”

It happens a third time and Technoblade’s world spins.

_ > Recognize recognize recognize _

_ > Is he finally remembering???? _

_ > idk, not yet? _

_ > Ugh, someone get me when something interesting happens _

_ > your dead, whats stopping you from watching all the time? _

_ > It’s actually ‘you’re’ _

_ > where _

_ > where? _

_ > WHERE DID I ASK— _

* * *

There is a house on a hill in the forest. It looks familiar, with a basement, a middle floor, and a top floor with stairs leading up from the outside.

There is a house beneath a hill in a fierce tundra. 

There was a house on a hill in a forest. It was a home too, once.

Both can theoretically exist at the same time. The house on a hill in the forest is perfectly ingrained in his memory, enough for him to replicate it bit by bit.

There is a boy with a beanie, taller than him. He wears a scowl.

There is a boy smaller than him with a bandage on his cheek.

Sunlight flows through the curtains like honey, oozing in warm delight. There is something resting on the bridge of his nose, and his fingers fly to adjust it.

He laughs.

The tiny freckled boy smiles and it shows his tooth gap.

A deep, tenor voice calls from downstairs and they rush to ~~where storage is, the chests~~ the dining room.

Their father is tired. There are bags under his blue eyes, but his smile lights up the room like the honey-light and like his brothers’ faces. He takes off his hat to sit at the table, a cape swishing behind him.

They’re singing at the table. Four humans with perfect harmony. They sing together all the time, how could he forget?

The candles on the cake are flickering, and it’s a world away from the fires of the Nether.

“Happy birthday T̶̡͆̋́͝—”

* * *

Nothing else but static noise and Chat going wild.

“I’m sixteen! I am an adult man!” Tommy’s fists are balled as he stands, beating against his chest to each word and anger burns in his eyes until he sees his hero’s face. “Technoblade?”

His heart pounded.

* * *

The boy that Technoblade has been seeing through the eyes of is not an adult. Now he is a teenager. He is taller, the clothes more unfitting than before. There are stitches to fix the jacket, now forced to be a half-coat that tucks into his shirt.

He looks like the mockery of a man.

Actually, he doesn’t look like a man at all.

* * *

Technoblade remembered this part.

The rest had to be a daydream, the machinations of a tired mind. Separating his identity from his mask is impossible.

Literally.

* * *

He has forgotten what snow feels like. He has forgotten snow. There are many things Technoblade has forgotten, but the name of snow sticks. Snow. It sounds like a dream, like the deranged ramblings of a piglin who lost his mind, and like a fairy tale all at once.

He liked fairy tales, once. 

Now they’re just unrealistic.

The piglin group he is trailing turn to look at him. He’s been following behind them, scavenging whatever food they decide to discard and bartering whatever he can get his hands on. Their eyes are vacant, white. His eyes are present, despite his appearance. Alert. He has to be, it’s one mistake and death. 

The Nether is not forgiving.

He notices when their behavior shifts.

The piglins decide to attack. 

Technoblade sighs.

He doesn’t want to attack this one. There have been too many packs, too many attempts at communication, too many tries at a family.

Technoblade has no tools. He’s forced to work with his fists and some metal the pigs scrapped, which with enough tempering he’s made into knuckles. Netherite knuckles, but that knowledge will evade him until years in the future.

He busts one of the pigs’ heads open, then shoves another’s head into the netherrack wall. Blood spills on his boots. A tusk is embedded in his hand; he puts pressure on the wound then yanks it out, stabbing it into the head of the third. The fourth pushes into his back, and Techno slams his head back into its skull until it fractures.

The fifth runs off. 

And all at once, an uproar, a chant from a place and group he cannot see or hear.

It sings that Technoblade never dies.

* * *

All at once Chat was unanimous:

_ > Technoblade never dies. _

_ > TECHNOBLADE NEVER DIES _

_ > technoblade never dies _

_ > blood for the blood god!!! _

_ > Techno never dies _

_ > Technoblade never dies! _

He nodded in agreement.

“Technoblade.”

Tommy laughed.

Techno realized he had convinced the child he was fine.

“Is that how you get the girls, Blade?”

“I’m not interested.” The art of combat and potato farming interested him more than girls. Or anyone, for that matter. 

“Are you crying?”

“No.” Tommy sniffed. 

“Here, let go of Carl.” Technoblade pulled Tommy away.

“But I wasn’t—”

“I killed everyone that ever touched that horse.”

“Okay, fine.” Tommy doesn’t move.

Techoblade can’t sigh because he’s already sighed too much and anything that exacerbates the situation will give him a headache. Instead, he picks Tommy up and lifts him over his shoulder. He chooses to say nothing in response as Techno headed inside and down, down, until they were both in Tommy’s little nest of shiny things and stolen goods. 

Tommy struggled to stay on the bridge of consciousness. Technoblade takes his hand and walks him all the way there, staying down in the pitiful hole until Tommy has tired himself out from the sound of his own voice.

It was hours before he risked stepping away from the bed.

Snow fluttered down. It was cold and wet, but it was snow; a miracle all the same. 

Technoblade stretched out a hoof. It was not the hand of a small child that was trapped in the Nether. It was a Piglin beast who had believed he'd never feel the cold again. 

Technoblade glanced out the shutters. Tommy was inside, falling asleep. The silence of the home told him as much. 

He pulled his hand back inside. 

The fire of the top floor crackled. Techno dipped his head forward. His hands clasped around an invisible buckle, hidden underneath his hair. 

As easy and simple as changing clothes, Technoblade the human stood in his retirement home. His height was the same, scars still present, but now a long unkempt braid of hair trailed down his back. It was ill-maintained, tangled and disgusting. A liability.

Without thinking twice, Technoblade took his sword and slashed the braid off.

* * *

“You don’t know when to quit, do you?!” Dream yells. It feels like the ground is shaking beneath them.

Techno stands firm. He’s towering above him, sword at his side.

“Nope. I’ve been told it’s one of my best qualities.” His voice is monotonous as always.

The green fiend stood hunched over his stomach, shoulders rising and falling to the tune of his ragged breaths. He knew that they didn’t need to breathe. It was all theatrics, even in the middle of a fight. Still, Dream’s voice was frantic, jittery, shaking, and loud; something Chat assured him they altogether had never seen in their combined existences.

Technoblade felt smug.

Technoblade made the grave mistake of hubris.

In a flash, the god is behind him. The god that can see the straps of his mask, the god that slices it off with a well-placed swordstrike and grabs him by his braid.

“Y’know, I really didn’t want to kill you. I’ve heard about you, a little bit. I just didn’t care.” He whispers into Techno’s ear as the pain tears into his scalp.

It only took a half-second for him to find a solution.

Dream was guarding from the left, expecting another hit to his mask. 

Technoblade swiped at the right.

In a flash, he’s cut off his braid of pink hair and freed himself from the clutches of his enemy.

He smirks, and pulls out his axe. He doesn’t need the mask to fight, it’s already a part of him.

“C’mere, Dream.”

* * *

That one. That memory is real and he has all the proof he needs of that. He turned over his hand and pushed up the brass knuckles to see the gashes along his finger from where he held the grip. He sets the hand-to-hand weapon on the crafting table as he massages his hands.

Soaking his fingers in instant healing should alleviate the pain. Even for a moment. 

Dream hit hard. The wounds never left. 

But Technoblade hit harder.

A burned hand reached out to the snowfall. 

The snow didn't burn back. 

"He's not me, Chat. We're keeping it that way."

If there was one thing Technoblade was good at achieving, it was his goals.


	2. His Genesis and Exodus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all started in the Nether. Hell is where the heart is, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: If you're returning to read this from an earlier version of the story, you may remember this part being longer. I decided to cut back on the chapter length to make the fic easier to read. Nothing's gone, it's just being reformatted. 
> 
> Enjoy.

Technoblade slept in the attic of his house, next to the books and the table he’d stashed for emergency enchanting. 

The attic offered a strategic viewpoint of all around him with the added benefit of not sticking out like a watchtower in the snow. Technoblade liked that. He liked the comfort of knowing, the luxury of clear sight and a backup plan. He liked when all the cards were on the table, and it was a mere matter of reading them. The head of the table was a lonely place to be, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

After all, it was only when he was alone did he feel truly safe.

_ > its snowing _

_ > Bad time for tracking, a good time to leave tracks _

_ > pog _

Not that he was ever alone.

He didn’t have a process for getting ready to sleep. He only slept when he had to, ending up awake for days on end before falling into nights of the deepest sleep. Tommy had wrecked that perfectly awful schedule and forced him to fix it.

That was as much as Technoblade would admit to himself. 

Due to the nature of his isolated existence, few people had ever seen him sleep. His methods of rest started as a survival instinct, then became a habit, then a compulsion. Beds were too comfortable, sometimes. It was during the moments of paranoia, the moments Techno felt his back against the wall, where traditional bedrest failed him.

That was what sleeping piles were good for.

It was a piglin habit as well; the group sleeping together in a heap. Once, he had snuck into a sleep-gathering during a lonely streak. It had proven to be a costly mistake. He thumbed over a scar on his jawline.

He needed this.

He chose the corner behind the hatch. He doubted that anyone would come up to disturb his slumber, but in that unlikely event, their gaze would be cast towards the appearance of a stuffy attic, unaware of the beast at their back.

Sliding his own back down against the wall, he rolled around twice and settled on his stomach.

Like that, Technoblade fell asleep.

* * *

A child stumbles through the Nether.

He stumbles because it is all he can do.

His clothes are torn and burned. His hair is mud brown, blue eyes bright as the Overworld sky he no longer can view. There are glasses on his face, fractured. His cheeks are singed and his eyes wide. Frantic. 

Burns lace his arms. 

At his side rests a misshapen stick. It is dented with the blows of a desperate combatant, fighting for his life. Blood and viscous liquids from mobs coats his clothing. The spray evaporates as soon as it hits the air, staining him red. His half-coat is repaired as best as it can be from his fall into hot ash, emergency stitching pulled from the unwound thread of his sleeves. It is his sole defender against the raw heat.

At least his father taught him how to sew.

His lips are parched. He could not cry even if he wished. The spells he had cast for water had vaporized in an instant. Writing out more would only serve to expend more energy he didn’t have. He would pay any asking price for a single drop, but there is no seller to be found in this wild hell.

He is alone.

Still, he is thirsty. That thirst bites down on the back of his throat and makes him blink away the stinging in his eyes.

He stumbles into a basalt delta. His glasses dash against the rocks and into lava. His ankle twists hard and wrong.

The boy cries out in pain. He’s rolling, and every dip further down digs into his skin.

A bastion remnant saves him from rolling into the lava. He crawls inside with all the leftover strength in his arms and collapses in the insular room.

He does not know how much time passes as he lays there. His body is so hot it feels cold. A chill passes through him and he shudders.

It is empty, save for himself and an object at its center.

A chest.

“Please. Please, help me.”

He opened it.

A mask.

Technoblade cries. It didn’t matter that there was not the spare hydration in his body for the gesture. He cries all the same. It is not something he can control.

With that, he finally voices the words he had been holding at bay:

“I’m going to die here.”

The realization hits after he says it. His entire body tremors.

“I’m going to die here and they’ll never find my body.”

There is no one to hear him. He sobs.

“It’s all my fault, it’s all my fault. I should have stuck by his side. I’m not a hero, I’m just a kid. I’m thirteen, I don’t want to die yet. I want to see the ocean. I want to go to the End. But now, I just want to go home!”

His body curled into the fetal position as he sobbed, raw knees stinging on the brick floor.

“Please, take me home!” He shudders as his arms keep him propped up on the box.

It’s a pig mask. 

He liked pigs.

At that moment, time freezes. 

Instead of the thousands of options laid out nice and neat, the bastion becomes an escape room. There are no paths forward but the one he holds in his hands. 

With nothing else to do, he dons the mask.

The mask sears into his mind as Techno screams.

_ > It has been so long since we have had a vessel. _

* * *

Seven hard years pass.

The Nether becomes his home.

Technoblade forgets.

* * *

The Nether looked like an infected wound.

It was seething, red, and blistered. Lava poured out like puss, thick and rotten. The smell was rank, a concoction of sulfur and ash that snuffed out life like candles in the wind.

But even an infected wound begins to seem like home when you've survived amongst it for so long. 

The piglin that stood on the cliffs of netherrack was massive. A far cry from the fallen child that no longer existed (and perhaps never had), this creature was a 6’5” red-eyed abomination of muscle and strength. Tusks framed his battered face. He wore a red half-jacket that covered his skin yet facilitated movement. Not that he cared if it ripped, the supplies to fix his clothing, armor, and tools were with him at all times in a pocket sewn into the inside of his jacket. Red was the easiest color to dye and the easiest to clean, with decorative yellow shoulder pads with fringe and all the eccentric gold trimmings he could add. Netherite metal wrapped around his knuckles; unarmed weapons that could pack a punch in an emergency. Bandages wrapped his arms and legs, a cover for the scars that littered his appendages while acting as a further heat shield. All that was exposed were his hooves. Hooves were better to grip the floor of netherrack with, less ready to slide than boots or coverings.

Efficient like machinery, precise in his terror, a survivor and conqueror.

This was Technoblade.

Technoblade surveyed the area. Moving along the roof of the Nether allowed him to look below and scout for danger. The heat was much more intense, but the benefits far outweigh the drawbacks. It prevented ghasts from sneaking up on him, kept dangerous piglin hordes down to manageable sizes. If he was forced to confront one, he could take it down in isolation before it signalled the others. Not that Techno enjoyed killing his brethren, but he didn’t have a choice.

It helped to have a crowd looking out for him, too.

_ > Ravine here _

_ > Quartz! Free levels _

_ > you should go mining _

_ > E _

_ > e _

_ > Piglin group to your front and back _

_ > E _

_ > E? _

_ > he already saw the pigs, idiot _

_ > E _

Even if they were annoying at times.

For the pig who the Nether should have spit-roast over a fire, he was thriving. 

His back was laden with precious wood and stone. He had spent a few days traversing the warped forest, seeking ender pearls and water bottles. The pearls were self-explanatory, an emergency exit out of a rough spot or an easy way to traverse the harsh rock. The water bottles were essential; in the event he couldn’t muster the magic. 

It was time to go home.

Home was charted on a mental map in his head. The walk was routine—hike until he hit familiar, indistinct bluffs he’d chosen. The rigor was the closest thing he had to a companion.

_ > and us!!! _

_ > Good job today, Technoblade! _

_ > I’m happy I was here to see it _

_ > pogs in Chat, resource grinding stream _

_ > when are you going to fight something. _

Chat was more than a companion. Chat was a friend, an extension of himself.

He positioned his feet into the staggered cracks up the side of the maroon brick wall. The entrance was high up to prevent stragglers. Crimson vines obscured the opening window. He had to climb up to go back down inside.

He never doubted his grip, never feared the fall.

Technoblade never falls.

Despite the feat of strength, he watched himself make the climb akin to how one passes time while fishing; making idle banter.

Technoblade’s base was built into the side of a fortress. He patrolled the hidden halls twice a week, looking out for the char of black bones or the hiss of awakened fire. With these downsides, one may wonder why he bothered with returning there at all. 

It was simple. 

The nether bricks kept cooler longer. It was a novel invention by the original inhabitants. Whoever they were. Techno didn’t care. They were weak and had died out because of it. All that was left to do was scrounge in the decay of their progress. 

At the pinnacle, he slipped inside the window, past the creeping vines and their tender caresses. The inside was barren, another diversion. A trapdoor obscured by a pile of bricks hid for him in the corner, with ladders now to assist in his descent. 

Shifting his gains of the day (week, month? Time is an illusion amongst the heat) to his shoulder, he headed down.

There are three rooms in the guts of the fortress. The central ladder takes him to the fourth, the link between the rest: a storage room, a resting room, and an escape room. 

The emergency exit room was the easiest way out. It was the smallest, three by three wide. Still, it was his favorite. Not that the maze above wasn’t fun to traverse, but sliding down the ladder and throwing himself to the vines? It brought him no small amount of joy.

His storage is scattered about the room in a way that if the ceiling of netherrack were to crack despite his reinforcements, the lava would only claim a portion of his supplies. The walls of it are lined with weaponry. Large golden weapons with enchantments etched in script too beautiful for the piglins that wielded them to be their creators, discarded diamond swords half-destroyed, burnt, plundered off of the backs of dead adventurers, and fragments of workable pickaxes were a testament to his survival and continued endurance.

From the storage room chests he grabbed three empty glass bottles. He dumped the bags in there with no effort to sort. Organization happened for Technoblade in frenzies, days of dedication to items finding their perfect place, until he snapped out of it and returned his focus to himself.

Which is where it was. Right now, he was parched.

The base was at the coolest temperature he could find, in the coolest place he could find, built of rows and rows of bricks brought down to the proper biome. He’d constructed this ersatz fortress on his own, to suit his uses. Heat rose, and Technoblade knew if he went down further and insulated himself, the air would be tolerable. It made a perfect rest room. Not only that, but it allowed him to do his necessary magics.

Unfortunately, he needed his hands for it.

Technoblade unlatched the invisible buckle at the back of his head and slipped his mask up. 

The illusion of his imposing physical pig form broke. A braid of pink hair, tangled and highlighted orange by the residual light, slipped down his back. The scars remained. Techno never wondered about his appearance, it wasn’t necessary to survival and was accordingly discarded. He was fortunate the mask’s binding effects kept his fireproof resistance and protection.

_ > AND YOU KEEP US!!! _

Techno winced.

There were positives and negatives. Chat was helpful, but Chat was loud.

_ > im donating for the frost spell _

_ > Save your energy for when he needs it. _

_ > REMEMBER: Don’t make WATER, make ICE _

_ > donating!!! have my energy techno i love watching you _

“Thank you.”

With his index finger, he wrote into the smelted stone:

⎓ ∷ 𝙹 ᓭ ℸ ̣

Frost collected at the side of the wall. It melted upon creation, to which Techno bottled it before it could sizzle into steam, then into nothing.

If he didn’t have magic, he would have died of dehydration a long time back. Piglin trading wasn’t nearly enough to meet the water quota he needed. The first half of the frost walker enchantment lingered in his hands. Even if his mind forgot, his hands would always remember. Chat’s assistance was invaluable, too. A reassurance he hadn’t lost his mind, that their effect on the world was as real as their comments. Their corrections as well.

It would have been silly to waste his energy on water. Water vanished too quickly; ice had a chance to melt and be preserved. Writing out the aqua enchantment would burn him out with no gain.

Techno tied one of the full bottles to a leather strap at his waist. The other two he drank in their entirety. This soft skin wasn’t used to the heat or the touch of moisture, making his greedy gestures that more frenzied. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

He fastened the mask back on. Once more, Technoblade was a pig. He preferred it that way.

He had patrol to do. With his load lightened and his step refreshed, he hopped to his hooves. The fortress above was waiting for him to traverse. Up the ladder he went, maneuvering past the hidden entrance. 

Techno walked the halls like he’d done a thousand times over. There were corners, sharp turns, and multiple routes. There was nothing that could distract his focus, nothing that—

Gold.

Gold, _gold bars_ , laid scattered on the floor.

Technoblade needed that gold. It was one of the piglin instincts that had grabbed him and refused to let go. Rest could never last for long. The realm was full of ruins, and scavenging was survival’s heartbeat. Any scraps of valuables left on the ground was carelessness at best, at worst a trap. Loose gold was suspicious. He knew that. 

Techno scrambled to collect it.

Shuffling noises sounded around him.

_ > Look out! _

_ > Wither skeleton _

_ > You fucking moron, those rattle _

_ > It’s a wither skeleton _

_ > IT IS NOT A WITHER SKELETON! _

_ > FossilNet, they’re arguingggg _

_ > Don’t come to me, I’m not your keeper. _

His ears perked up. The sound was coming from. . .

There.

To the left. 

Technoblade shot up and kicked the creature behind him to the floor.

“Aah!” The creature screamed, falling backwards onto the ground. It scrambled back, a pick clutched in its hands. A bag at his side unwound, splaying more gold and valuables like scraps from heaven.

There was where the gold had come from.

Techno placed his foot against its chest. The garish teal strained his eyes, and its voice. Its voice was the most annoying sound Techno had ever heard.

He’d be happy to shut it up. Techno increased the pressure on its chest.

Then it tossed the pickaxe aside, waving like a man mad.

“Time out, time out! Wait, wait, wait! You’re a player! Me too, me too!” The creature lifted the box off its head. Dark hair, brown skin, blue eyes. Human. "What are you doing here? I thought you were a piglin!"

It was like Technoblade had forgotten how to speak. His vocal chords were rough, hewn from continuous years of disuse. 

A human being didn’t make sense.

“I mean, you are a player. Right?”

_ > a person. _

_ > blood! _

_ > blood for the blood god _

_ > Blood. _

_ > BLOOD _

_ > BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD! _

Technoblade’s eyebrow twitched. He breathed in, deep and willful. He needed them to shut up.

“Who are you.” It sounded like a command and a call. Techno’s voice doesn’t sound like his thoughts. It’s heavy and monotone, unlike his light and airy reading voice that carried the timbre of a lost lamb.

“Skeppy! They call me Skeppy.” To contrast, Skeppy’s was high and tight-wound. 

“Skeppy.” He repeated.

“Yeah. And you are?”

And he is. Who was he? The answer nearly slipped by as he stared.

“Technoblade. I’m a pig.”

“O-Okay. But not a piglin?”

Techno shook his head.

Skeppy slipped out from under his shoe and jumped up. He wiped off his shirt.

“You bruised my ribs. I thought I might die!” 

Technoblade’s hands were cold. Colder than the Nether could ever cause. If he didn’t know better, he would think he was dying.

“You’re a person.” 

“Yeah. Haven’t you seen a person before?”

No, he wanted to scream. If he had seen a person, it would have been in his frenzies, in the days he lost all sense of himself. If he had seen a person, he wouldn’t have been able to resist the call for blood, he would have dashed their brains open the same as a mob. If he had seen a person, a sign of humanity, someone to anchor him that weren’t the voices in his head, he would have clung to them like a lifeline.

How could he explain that?

Instead, he shook his head again.

“Huh. I didn’t think it was possible to spawn in the Nether. Well, you’re a person.”

“How could you tell?”

“Your eyes! And your clothes. Piglin eyes are all screwy and pale. You’re bright.”

Bright wasn’t in the top five words Techno would use to describe himself. It wasn’t even in the top twenty. Instead, bright was what he would call Skeppy. His face beamed despite being threatened with death mere moments ago.

He scooped up his box helmet.

“This is yours.” He offered it to Skeppy.

“Oh! Thank you. Replacing these is a pain.” 

Skeppy wiped his brow and plopped the headpiece back on. The block’s drawn-on expression was inane, a caricature of a human face with a tongue sticking out.

“How do you replace it?” Techno thought he liked him better without the eyesore, but if Skeppy could replicate something that gaudy and expensive-looking, he wanted to know his methods.

“Usually I commission someone.”

_Someone?_

“There’s more.”

“Well, yeah. The Overworld’s filled with people.”

“The Overworld isn’t real.”

“It is! I live there, hello.” Skeppy waved.

“It can’t be.” 

All at once, visions that Technoblade believed he’d invented flooded back. Water. Rain. Snow. Mud. Fields of green. A song playing faintly in the distance.

"Have you never been? Wow, there’s a world waiting for you! I can take you with me. If you want?" 

Skeppy said it casually. As if he hadn’t looked at Technoblade, taken his hand, and offered him life reinvented. That was it. That was the conversation that convinced him, no eloquent speeches, no lure of treasure or the promise of greatness. It was the flippant word of the first man he’d ever seen.

Technoblade knew his answer before the last word left Skeppy’s mouth.

"I need to pack."

"Oh, uh—Okay! Can I come with—"

"No."

Technoblade ran with enough force to shake the tower.

He’s never packed his things so quickly. He sprinted to the base, without care of if the human followed him, and threw himself down the stairs with the vigor of a man possessed. He bundled his valuables. Objects that could help, ender pearls in case this friendly face decided to lead him into an ambush. His hands froze as they hovered over the water bottles.

He was going to the Overworld. 

The Overworld would have water. 

It seemed like a myth. It felt like a lie, like a fairy tale to even dream that this human wouldn’t sink a sword into his side the moment he allowed his guard to drop.

He would have to stay alert. 

He left his water bottles.

Instead, he picked an axe off the wall.

When Technoblade returned, he expected Skeppy to be gone. An illusory hope, a flicker of power Chat forgot to explain they gave him.

Instead, Skeppy raised a fingerless gloved hand and waved. He wasn’t intimidated in the slightest.

Technoblade didn’t dare let his mind waver the entire walk. He focused ahead, on seeing, on feeling, on all that would keep his guide safe. If a piglin, ghast, or magma monster threatened Skeppy, he didn’t remember it. He didn’t remember the compliments or the comments. He kept the hum of blood out of his ears. His feet knew how to walk the walk, like he had done it a thousand times.

“Techno.”

His escort called his attention. Technoblade looked up.

A rectangle of obsidian. It swirled a purple only known to Techno in the eyes of enemy endermen and pulsed, cool and violent. It lurched and moaned with harsh noises on his delicate ears. Technoblade felt like he might be sick.

“It’s a Nether Portal. It leads out to the lobby. Are you ready?”

Technoblade doesn’t respond. He thought, and his mind catches up with him at last:

_Don’t ever ask me that again._

_I’ve never been more scared._

_I’ve never been more alive._

_I’m more ready than I’ve ever been._

_What do you think, Chat?_

_ > we’re ready _

_ > we think— _

_ > We’re going home. _


End file.
